Toss'd, torn, and trunk-lining, but still with some ink,
Now squat city misses their albums expand,
And woo the worn rhymer for "something off-hand";
No longer with stinted effrontery fraught,
Bucklersbury now seeks what St. James's once sought,
And (O, what a classical haunt for a bard!)
The Poet of Fashion dines out in Barge-yard.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.
(1775-1864.)